How Good It Is to Sleep
by Kallie49
Summary: Injured and dying on a remote desert moon, Picard has plenty of cause to think on the ways he'd always tried to do right by the Crusher family...and the ways he'd fallen short. Set during the latter parts of "Final Mission" and afterwards; concludes after "Data's Day." Complete. P/C.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story is set during the last few scenes of "Final Mission" and afterwards, and is written from Picard's point of view. (As an aside, it's impressive, though not surprising of course, how good Sir Patrick Stewart is in this one when he's lying flat on his back for half of it.) Dialogue taken from the episode is by Kacey Arnold-Ince and Jeri Taylor; the rest is mine. Reviews are kindly welcomed.

#-#-#

 _Thirsty_.

He was fading. The darkness was closing in at the edges of his vision again. It wouldn't be long now.

The tune of an old nursery rhyme danced lightly through his unfocused mind and he murmured the words. _Auprès de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon..._ He was trying to hold on, but the agony from his back, his leg, his head was unrelenting, stabbing at him with every shallow breath inhaled through cracked, dry lips. _Need water_. He needed much more than that, of course, but it might at least alleviate the particularly acute agony of his thirst. Failing that...it would be easier, wouldn't it, to just let go? To leave this place?

Which was...where, exactly? It was getting hard to remember. He should ask Beverly. She always took care of him; she would tell him. Except...she wasn't here, was she? He peered up at the blurry figure working quietly next to him, doggedly chased the inchoate thoughts around in his mind until one finally resolved: Beverly's _son_. Wesley. Yes, he would ask Wesley. "Ensign, where are we?"

There was a pause, then a cautious reply. "We crashed, sir. We're in a cave."

A cave? That didn't make any sense. Well, there was something more important than that anyhow. "I need water."

More hesitation. "Sir, we don't have any water. Don't you remember? We tried to get to the fountain, and Captain Dirgo—"

 _And the landslide_. Another knife of pain stabbing through him brought momentary clarity, and Jean-Luc Picard recalled the dangerous crumbling of the cliff walls overhead, the instinctive, desperate rush to shove the boy to safety, and the terrible weight of the stones crushing his own body. "Yes," he rasped. "I remember."

Wesley started to describe his thoughts on how to break through the sentry guarding the water fountain they'd found, but Picard interrupted. No doubt the boy's plan had a chance of success—he was intuitively brilliant with technical problems, after all—but Picard didn't need to hear the details; even if he could have processed them in his current state, it simply wasn't going to happen in time for him. He didn't particularly _want_ to die here on this godforsaken desert moon, of all places, but he couldn't see that there was anything he could do about it. Still, while he could accept the apparent inevitability, he did regret that there hadn't been more time. There was so much he had wanted to tell Wesley, now as he headed off to the Academy and in the future, but now there was no time left. "Listen to me," he insisted again.

The young ensign swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

Picard told him about Boothby. The boy seemed surprised that the Academy groundskeeper could have meant so much to the captain, but then, he didn't yet understand: sometimes the most important things in school had nothing at all to do with the classroom, but with the people you never expected to meet, who could become mentors, _friends_ for a lifetime. Although sometimes that life turned out to be much shorter than one had planned, or hoped. He felt an anguished sob well up in him. He envied the boy, now, at the beginning of his life instead of the end. So much ahead of him...

But it wouldn't do to break down now. He was still the captain of the _Enterprise_ , after all, and his ensign needed to focus on his own task of survival, not to worry about him any longer. He drew a shuddering, painful breath to compose himself again, and mustered what authority he could while lying immobile and half-delirious on a cave floor. "Go on," he instructed, forcing the words through parched lips. "Get the water. Stay alive. They'll find you."

Wesley knew an order when he heard one. He nodded resolutely, collecting his tricorder and supplies before getting to his feet. "I'll be back soon," he promised.

"Of course."

There was something else, something important. Picard remembered, through the haze, the boy's earlier confession, here, that he wanted Picard—of all people—to be proud of him. Picard had been barely conscious, but had heard the words and was astonished. More than that, he was profoundly humbled. How could that even be? He wasn't Wesley's father. But of course, it was because of him, of his cursed decision all those years ago to order his best friend to his death, that Jack Crusher wasn't here anymore, that Wesley had no father to strive to make proud. He'd done everything he could to make up for that fact once Wesley had come to the _Enterprise_ , to try to play a role, however insufficient, in Wesley's life. He always knew it could never be enough, but it was the least he could do. For his absent friend, for Wesley...and for Beverly. He owed it to them all.

It hurt to turn his head, but he had to speak. The boy—the young _man—_ had confided in him; it was so important that he hear this one thing more in return. "Wesley," he called, hoarsely, but with as much firmness as he could summon. He focused on the indistinct figure across the cave, knew he was listening. "You remember...I was always proud of you."

There was a long pause before Wesley turned and went off in search of the water. _Good_. He would find it, he would survive, even if Picard wouldn't. His own survival was no matter, though, as long Wesley could make it home to his mother...

 _Beverly_...

Beverly, the woman he trusted, depended upon, had increasingly come to consider his closest friend, as they'd come to share much more of their daily lives than mere colleagues would. Sharing morning tea or the occasional dinner, enjoying orchestral concerts and plays together, discussing their respective scientific enthusiasms… Over the past few years he had grown to truly love her company. And yes, despite trying so hard to deny it, to wish it away, he also loved _her_ —but he had never admitted it to her and didn't want to admit it to himself, even here, because it still wasn't _right_. He had never had any _right_ to feel that way about her.

Another wave of pain, not physical this time, surged through him, together with the familiar, crushing guilt and regret. At the very least, now, at the end, he could rest easier knowing that he had never betrayed Jack's friendship. But that hardly made him an honorable man, he thought with bitter reproach, because the temptation was always there. And the truth was that he so desperately wanted to see her again now. Just once more...

But it was a selfish desire, he knew, and there was no place for selfishness anymore. Not with her. He had done what he could to make sure her son returned to her. Losing his own life in exchange would be a small price to pay, in the end, to finally set things right.

Odd, unfocused shadows began to swim above him and he closed his eyes again, trying to shut out the blurry, dizzying vision, to ease the pounding in his head, to push away the damnable thirst. Annoyance bubbled up and he grimaced inwardly. He really needed water. Couldn't someone see he was thirsty? Where was the doctor, anyway? The cold of the stone floor beneath him was creeping throughout his body, but in a small mercy, at least he felt warm. _Going into shock_ , some part of him realized dimly, and then the realization floated back out of his consciousness like a boat drifting away on the current. Fragments of music sounded distantly in his mind, and he began to hum again. _Que donneriez-vous, belle, pour avoir votre mari?_

Unmoored now, he drifted along with the melody in his mind and let the warm darkness envelop him. _Auprès de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon dormir..._ Yes...it would be good to sleep.

#-#-#

* * *

 _N.B. - The refrain of the folk song Picard sings translates loosely to, "Ah, near to my fair girl, how good it is to sleep." The other line from the song near the end is, "And what would you give, beautiful, to have your husband back?"_


	2. Chapter 2

He had never expected to awaken again, but somehow a jumble of sensations began to pull him up from the murky depths of unconsciousness: Voices swimming around him, urgent, indistinct, and yet somehow familiar. Hard, uncomfortable pressure on numb limbs that nevertheless hurt. A warm hand on his forehead, something cool pressed against his neck, and an easing, however slight, of the consuming pain throughout his body. And...his mouth was no longer quite so dry. _Water_. Wesley had done it. _Good man_.

Jean-Luc Picard cracked open his eyes and then blinked, disbelieving the vision of soft red hair and concerned blue eyes in the muted light above him. His lips moved as he spoke her name soundlessly: _Beverly_.

A gentle smile passed over her lips in reply and she stroked the side of his face once, tenderly, before turning to speak briskly to someone behind her. Careful but firm hands gripped him, shifted him to a hard surface, and he winced. He listened as Beverly moved away from him, heard her happy, relieved reunion with her son. Thank goodness Wesley was all right.

As for himself, there was no one in the galaxy he trusted more with his own well-being than her; he knew she would treat his injuries, bring him back to health. And then—there would be _time_. Time he had believed he would never have again. What he would do with it was something he'd have to fully contemplate later, but for now it was enough to know it existed.

He breathed in once, trying to lock away the warm, comforting rush of emotion that had almost overcome him at the sight of her smile, then found his voice to call for her attention. "Doctor."

Beverly turned back to him, assuming his question to be about his medical status. "We're taking you back to the _Enterprise_ ," she explained reassuringly, placing a soothing hand on his uninjured arm. "We've stabilized your vital signs." She looked up, directed the medical officers to continue with the evacuation.

"One moment," he rasped. There was something he needed to address first. "Mr. Crusher?"

The ensign's face appeared next to him, worn, dusty, and exhausted. "Yes, sir."

Picard hesitated, his mind not yet quite able to supply the words he was searching for. He fell back instead upon familiar decorum, his eyes creasing with the faintest hint of humor as he looked the young man over. "What are you doing in such a filthy uniform?"

Surprised for a moment, Wesley recovered quickly, replied in the same grave tone: "You don't look so shipshape yourself, sir."

Picard smiled, reaching out with his good hand to shake the young man's as the medics began to move him again for transport. "Wesley," he said sincerely, "you will be missed."


	3. Chapter 3

The searing heat of the moon's surface dissolved into cool darkness, and then he was aware of nothing else until awakening now. He turned his head, pleased to discover that the action no longer hurt, and recognized that he was in the captain's private recovery room in sickbay. Beverly was working at a diagnostic panel nearby on his right, consulting with a shorter raven-haired nurse—Chernaya, his memory supplied—as they studied the readouts there. He cleared his throat experimentally.

"Captain." She looked up immediately, and he was surprised to see the exhaustion in her bright blue eyes. It must have been a hard time for her before their rescue, he realized, not knowing what had happened to them. And he had no idea of the full extent of his own injuries and how long she would have had to work on him once they returned, or how much time had passed since then... "How are you feeling?" she asked.

Picard considered, glancing down to assess his own condition. He was clad in loose cornflower-blue hospital attire, with a rather cumbersome osteo-regeneration unit wrapped around one leg, immobilizing it, and a sling on his left arm. Noticing another sensation, he reached up gingerly to feel a dermagen patch on his smooth head, then grimaced as he realized it was in roughly the same place where one had been placed after the Borg implants were removed only a few months before. The entire effect was rather distressing...but then again, he did feel much more himself than he had ever since the accident, and his mind was blessedly clear. _So_... "Better," he concluded at length. He shifted his good arm underneath himself to raise up on one elbow, then grunted as his ribs protested. "Or not," he amended through gritted teeth.

"Don't try to move much yet," Beverly ordered. She motioned for her nurse to exit the room, then came over to him with her tricorder to scan for updated vital signs as he eased back down to rest again.

He waited patiently for her to finish her scans, simply taking in the welcome sight of her as she worked quietly, efficiently over him. When she had closed the tricorder and set it aside, he raised an eyebrow and spoke dryly: "Perhaps _you_ can tell _me_ how I'm feeling."

Sidestepping the question for a moment, Beverly raised the back of the biobed more so he could sit up, then brought him a glass of water. "Here, drink this first."

He accepted the clear liquid gratefully, feeling cool relief spread throughout his body as he drank. Amazing how something could be such a scarce, precious resource in one moment and an effortlessly available commodity in another. "Thank you," he murmured.

"I thought you might like that." She smiled at him, in that way that always warmed his heart, before taking the cup back to set it on the table next to him and tilting her head at him. "How much do you remember?"

He frowned, concentrating. "I remember—the landslide. Wesley saying something to me. Feeling thirsty. But it's—hard to pin down." His frown deepened as he glanced up at her, trying to grasp the frustratingly elusive memories.

Beverly nodded encouragingly. "It's all right—some memory loss is to be expected with the severity of the concussion you sustained, but I think you won't notice any long-term effects." She paused and then continued in her familiar, clinical manner of speaking. "Now. The good news is that yes, you are doing much better. But in addition to the head trauma, you suffered internal bleeding and multiple fractures to your left arm and right leg. There was also severe dehydration, although Wesley was able to help with that when he found the water. It bought you a little more time. But if we hadn't found you when we did..." She trailed off and looked away for a moment, the muscles working in her jaw.

Picard absorbed the calm recitation in silence. Though he'd known the situation was grave, of course, it was sobering to hear it all laid out. He was fortunate indeed to be recovering here in the cool, quiet environs of the _Enterprise_ , instead of being buried among the rocks of that scorched, barren moon. Never having seen his ship, his friends, _her_ again...

Tentatively, he covered her hand where it had curled into a fist against the side of his bed. Startled out of her thoughts, Beverly met his gaze again, then shook her head and hastened to reassure him. "Don't worry. It took awhile, but I was able to repair the damage and you're going to be fine. It's just going to take a little time before you're back on your feet."

He nodded once, thankful for her skill and attention, and was about to withdraw his hand again when she surprised him, turning over her smaller hand underneath his to hold it. His breath caught and he tightened his grip involuntarily, feeling her touch to be no less precious and vital than the water he'd just drunk.

She stared down at their joined hands. "You know, Jean-Luc, you've been in here a few too many times for my liking over the past few months."

Recalling his other recent stays in this particular room, Picard sighed. "Yes, well, it's not my preference either," he assured her, then dared to add, with a half-smile, "I'd much rather see you in other circumstances."

"It's mutual, then." The lovely smile reappeared, and she held his gaze with affection and squeezed his hand once…before letting go, managing to retreat to a safer distance without moving a single step away.

He accepted this with equanimity, respecting the boundaries of their friendship, and sought to change the subject. He was confident the ship was being capably managed by his first officer and he could receive a status report later, so he didn't inquire about that; he very much doubted Beverly would react favorably to any attempt to focus on work right now anyway, and truthfully he didn't feel up to it yet. Instead he asked quietly, "How is Wesley?"

Her expression softened further and she relaxed a bit, leaning against the side of his bed, showing a comfort level with him here that he suspected she would never allow herself with her other patients. "He's fine. Thanks to you."

"Thanks to him," Picard countered. "I'm quite certain I wasn't much good to him after the accident. He handled himself extremely well for such a dire situation. He'll be a fine officer, Beverly."

A faint glow of pride lit her tired features. "I know. He did pretty well with your field dressings, too. Maybe I can convince him to switch to medicine yet," she mused. She considered, then shook her head ruefully. "But no, he'll probably stick with engineering."

"Probably," he agreed. Though his memories were maddeningly vague, he had some recollection of the confidences Wesley had shared with him on surface, and he felt a heightened sense of appreciation for his own role as a mentor to the young man. More than ever, he knew, he would be glad of the opportunity to help fill that role for him in the future—perhaps even as he navigated his career path. "Of course, one nice thing about that first year is the broad exposure one receives to all different concentrations, so perhaps he'll surprise you after all." He smiled at her, studying her profile, noting the stubborn red wisps of hair that refused to stay out of her eyes, and he resisted the temptation to reach up and brush them aside.

"True enough." Oblivious to his idle thoughts, Beverly sighed and ran a hand through her hair herself, staring into space. "I just can't believe he's leaving in less than two weeks already. He's been looking forward to it for such a long time. I'm really going to miss him."

Picard winced, her words summoning the regret he felt about the shuttle crash. "Beverly, I am so sorry about what happened—" he began.

She straightened up with a frown, as if suddenly remembering their circumstances, and pushed her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. "It wasn't your fault, Jean-Luc," she said firmly. "And I'm sorry—I didn't mean to be talking so much now. You need to rest."

He took a breath, ready to object, then thought the better of it and nodded slowly. He did feel more tired than he'd like. "What time is it?"

She glanced at the chronometer behind her and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. "Around twenty-one thirty."

He looked at her sharply, realizing. "You've been up—"

"Since yesterday morning," she filled in with a shrug.

"Doctor," he protested in disapproval.

"Hush." Beverly met his gaze steadily, without apology. "I needed to make sure you were all right."

He frowned, struck by her concern for him but worried about her taking care of herself. "Well, thanks to you, it appears that I am. But I'd like for my chief medical officer to get some well-deserved rest herself."

"Your chief medical officer will be just fine, Captain," she promised patiently. She busied herself with checking a few more readouts on a nearby panel, adjusting the settings on the unit enveloping his leg, and then moving to turn down the lights. "Now. Dr. Martin is on duty for gamma shift overnight and Anna Chernaya will be your nurse, so just call either of them if you need anything."

Picard nodded and shifted a bit uncomfortably on the biobed as she adjusted it. "All right. I'll—see you in the morning?" He didn't mean to sound quite so hopeful, but he found that despite his sincere desire for her to get some rest, he really didn't want her to leave.

"Of course." She pulled a lightweight multicolored blanket from the foot of the bed up over his legs and folded it over his waist. She was actually tucking him in, he realized. He would have been mildly embarrassed...except that he couldn't exactly reach the blanket himself, could he, and she'd done far more than this for him already. Besides which, a few months ago he'd been humbled— _humiliated_ , his brother had mocked—beyond anything he'd ever experienced in his life, and through every difficult step along the path to recovery from assimilation, Beverly had been there, calmly caring for him, always allowing him to keep his dignity through her graceful, unconditional acceptance. No—unlike with almost anyone else he'd ever known, he had no reason to fear being vulnerable with her. The knowledge gave him an extraordinary sense of peace. Did she have any idea how completely he trusted her?

She squeezed his arm, and he closed his eyes at the warmth of her hand through the thin fabric of his shirt. He could hear the affection in her voice. "Good night, Captain."

"Beverly," he said suddenly.

Her hand tightened almost imperceptibly, and she stilled. "Yes."

It probably wasn't the time. It might not _ever_ be the time to tell her everything he felt for her; the present circumstances weren't sufficient cause to breach the vow he'd long ago made to himself. And yet...surely it would be all right to say just this much? It was a dangerous line to walk, he knew, but he needed her to know, at the very least, some small measure of his _gratitude_ , for what she had done for him, for all that she was to him…

He spoke, the words spilling out haltingly. "Thank you...for finding me. For taking care of me. I hoped you would find Wesley but I—didn't expect to survive."

She stared at him for a long moment in the darkened room, something undefinable in her expression. "Do you really think," she said finally, the slightest waver of emotion in her voice, "that I would bring you back from the Borg and then leave you to die on some nameless moon of Pentarus Three?"

Eyes locked with hers, mouth going dry at the intensity he saw burning there, Picard shook his head once. "No. But I didn't believe I would make it. And I can't remember everything, but I remember—thinking about you. And I know I would have regretted never seeing you again."

There was a moment of hesitation, and then she swallowed, leaned down and pressed her cheek fiercely against his. His skin felt on fire where she brushed against him and he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing her in, drawing on every ounce of self-control he could summon not to turn his head and capture her lips. He had always been willing to accept anything she offered him. But _this_ —when he would have been satisfied just to _see_ her again—was a gift he had never expected.

"Get some rest, Jean-Luc," she whispered, drawing back slowly. "I'll be back in the morning."

As the door slid shut behind her he let out a long breath, heart pounding, feeling the memory of her touch as an inexpressibly exquisite ache.

Tomorrow, he thought, things would begin to return to normal. He would argue to be released back to duty, and try to pull rank; she would argue right back and wield her medical authority to keep him confined. He would resume his study of Regalian law to complete the Pentaran mediation, and perhaps Wesley Crusher would even have time to accompany him as planned. And then they'd move on from this system to their next missions. But something had changed, he knew, and he was grateful for it—hopeful, even, for what the future might bring.

As he slowly relaxed again, a song faintly remembered from his childhood came to mind. He hadn't thought of it in years, until Robert sang it with him when they'd finally found some measure of rapprochement in La Barre, and he'd been surprised he even remembered the words. Had he been thinking of this yesterday, in the timeless hours in the cave? He felt it as an echo from a dream, unable quite to recall, but he smiled now to himself as the cheerful refrain wafted through his memory. _Qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon_... Thinking of _her_ , knowing she was near, that he was home, brought him a confident peace.

The familiar hum of the _Enterprise_ computers sounding softly in the room began to lull his mind and he closed his eyes. It would be good to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: The first three chapters of this story can stand alone thematically and as a story, and they stay with canon, so please stop there if that's all you are interested in! But I decided to continue the story and since the next sections follow directly on the first, time-wise, I'm going to continue here instead of starting a new story. Here goes...

#-#-#

She couldn't sleep. By all rights she should have been out the moment her head hit the pillow; after the strain of the past forty-odd hours had finally lifted, utter exhaustion had settled in. But having given one more quick, relieved hug to her son, she sank gratefully into her bed—and lay awake.

She knew why, of course. It wasn't the stress of yesterday's near-lethal radiation threat to both the inhabitants of Gamelan Five and the _Enterprise_ crew; though challenging, handling that type of medical emergency situation was easily within her competence. It was that she'd had to react to the crisis all while knowing that the mining shuttle carrying the two most important people in her life—her only son, and her captain, her closest friend—had gone missing. Professional as always, she had managed to force down the cold fear that threatened to paralyze her until the search efforts—only a matter of hours, though it felt endless—had discovered that the two had survived the shuttle's crash on an uninhabited desert moon. But her elation at finding Wesley unharmed was dampened at finding Jean-Luc near death. Again she forced down the fear, concentrated instead on directing the rescue, treating his injuries, and then waiting, waiting for him to wake up, because she _needed_ to assure herself that he would be all right.

She'd done her job well. He was going to be fine.

But she still couldn't sleep.

She felt her pulse hammering in her ears, too rapidly to allow her to relax though she knew she needed to, and sighed. She prided herself on her relatively unflappable demeanor. Her long experience as a physician and Starfleet officer had conditioned her to react dispassionately to even the most overwhelming situations—the likes of which seemed to arise on the _Enterprise_ more often than one might expect. But several events of these past months had shaken her more than she cared to admit.

Because of him. Because of what he meant to her.

Not that she could say with much certainty what that _was_ , exactly. The growing depth in her friendship with Jean-Luc, recently rekindled after so many years apart and shot through, as ever, with maddening complexity and attraction, occupied more and more of her reflections of late, but she shied away from thinking too deeply about it. Deanna would probably say she was afraid of examining her feelings. She would probably be right. But damn it, didn't she have every _reason_ to be afraid?

Without even trying, she could still see, with perfect clarity, the cold, gray eyes of Locutus staring at her on the Borg cube and in sickbay, could hear him speaking her name in that voice at once both familiar and chillingly devoid of all of Jean-Luc's humanity. She'd spent so many hours in surgery, painstakingly excising countless thousands of alien microfibers and implants from the very cells of his body, that her shoulder muscles tensed just thinking about it. Fingering her own sheets now, she could still feel his, crumpled and sweat-soaked from the nightmares, could see the fear and suppressed rage in his eyes—ashamed at the weakness he didn't want her to see, though he'd never understood he was the strongest man she'd ever known—as she sat beside him through the nights, helping him to recover from the wounds that all her medical skills couldn't heal.

His nightmares soon receded into the past, and she moved on, too, trying to pretend the entire experience hadn't affected her profoundly, until just a few weeks later the Talarian boy, Jono, had attempted to murder him in his sleep, landing him right back on her operating table with an ugly stab wound above his heart. The injury itself wasn't hard to heal. It only made it harder to quell her own dreams of shadows and loss, the ones that still lingered after the Borg.

And then there was today. She turned over restlessly in bed, closing her eyes against the memories, but her mind's eye could easily see every step of the surgery she'd performed only hours before; she'd pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion in the effort to repair each fracture, each bleed, each piece of damaged tissue, to restore him to health.

 _Again_.

With Jean-Luc, there was always an _again_.

Something in her retreated farther away from him every time she thought she might lose him. She'd have to be oblivious not to have some understanding of how much he needed her, trusted her, far beyond the bounds of their professional relationship. And she was always aware, at some level, of the potential for there to be even more between them. But it frightened her how much he depended upon her—and how deeply she felt about him in return. What if she couldn't be good enough to save him the next time? Someday, inevitably, she wouldn't be. And what if she wasn't what he needed her to be?

What if she did lose him?

She knew she couldn't risk everything. Not again. Not like Jack. Not with _him_. No matter how much she cared for him, she had to protect herself; she couldn't afford for this friendship to turn into anything more, because she didn't think she could bear suffering its loss. She _knew_ how badly it would hurt. And how much worse might it be if _she_ was the one who couldn't save him the next time his life was threatened? She was staying behind the emotional line she had staked out out of sheer self-preservation.

Except—she _thought_ that, and still, little by little, she found herself forgetting her better judgment and edging across that line. He was too extraordinary a man, and their natural rapport far too strong, for her not to be drawn to him. A small smile escaped in spite of herself at the thoughts of how easily they had let their lives intertwine over the past year, at how much she always looked forward to seeing him. And _hearing_ him—the way he said her name, with that slight swallowing of the 'r' in his elegantly accented tones, could always bring a tiny flush of pleasure. Every little amusing anecdote at breakfast, confidence shared over casual teas, even their spirited disagreements—all of it drew her in, inexorably, wisps of gossamer spun over time into threads so strong, she wasn't sure she could pull away now even if she wanted to.

Staring into the darkness, she realized: she didn't want to.

And given the way she'd kept finding reasons to touch him earlier, to reassure herself of the comforting reality of his presence, his vitality, she thought that he must know it, too. She could read the depth of his affection in his keen hazel eyes, shared the warm relief he had felt at the return of their comfortable dynamic...and felt the simmering heat almost ready to spark from their proximity. Thinking of his last few words tonight—careful, restrained as ever, and yet somehow as honest and revealing as anything he'd ever said to her—made her shiver. She hadn't crossed the line…

But she'd thought about it. And she'd _been_ thinking about it more, recently, and the question was what to do about it _now_. Now, that she had another chance. Maybe she should finally _take_ the chance, before the next time—

Next time.

With a frustrated exhalation, she shut her eyes again, willing her mind to quiet down, hoping that this time, the dreams would stay away.


	5. Chapter 5

As she entered sickbay, a few minutes late for the start of her shift and feeling unsettled rather than refreshed by the sleep she'd finally managed to grab, Dr. Beverly Crusher shrugged on her lab coat and exchanged pleasant greetings with her staff. Nurse Ogawa delivered a summary of all overnight incidents, including a few instances of delayed treatment for radiation exposure, and handed her a padd containing the captain's latest vitals as well. Beverly scrolled through the readouts, nodding as she listened, then glanced up and smiled at the younger woman. "Thanks, Alyssa. Is the captain awake already, then?"

"Yes, and I think they've been working for a little while already," Ogawa answered as Beverly continued around to the back hallway.

 _They?_ Distracted with a few additional notations on the padd, Beverly touched the chime to sound her arrival, then stepped through the door with a smile on her face. "Good morning—" She stopped as she caught sight of the room's second occupant.

"Ensign Crusher, I thought you had a bridge shift this morning?" She was speaking to her son, but directing a cool gaze toward the captain. What on _earth_ was he doing working this early? All late-night musings aside, she supposed that one sure way of not being distracted by him today was to be completely exasperated by him. He always did have an uncanny ability to inspire that reaction in her.

Wesley glanced cautiously between the captain and the doctor as they stared each other down, neither giving a millimeter. "Captain Picard asked me to come by to discuss the evidentiary submissions for the mining mediation."

"He did, did he." She flicked her disapproving gaze to her son, who had the grace to shift uncomfortably, then returned it to Jean-Luc—who of course was one of the few people on board entirely immune to it. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that you're not cleared to return to duty yet?"

"Commander Riker advises that the miners' dispute is at a critical junction," Picard replied mildly. "I thought it would be best to have Mr. Crusher proceed with reviewing the submissions while I continue reading up on the relevant precedents."

"You've already talked to Riker—and you're doing research. Who even gave you the padd? Never mind, I assume it was the nurse. So either everyone just _forgot_ to check with me, or they're all acting at your direction. Captain—"

He attempted to mollify her. "Thanks to your excellent care, Doctor, I was feeling much better when I awoke this morning and thought it would be all right to go ahead and start catching back up."

Unmoved, Beverly folded her arms and gave him a withering look.

One corner of his mouth quirked up briefly before he yielded to her and turned his attention back to Wesley. "Mr. Crusher, please continue your review and report back to me this afternoon at 1400 hours."

"Yes, sir. Captain. Mom," Wesley said, escaping gratefully back out the door.

Beverly glanced after him, shaking her head, before beginning to remove the regenerative patch from Jean-Luc's scalp. She wasn't really upset with Wes—truthfully, she was pleased for the captain to be giving him a chance to participate on the mission—but she wasn't thrilled that they were continuing _quite_ so quickly after the whole near-fatal-crash incident. Jean-Luc should at the very least have waited to discuss it with her, and he knew it. "You know, Captain, my other patients respect my authority around here."

"As do I," he assured her.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Could have fooled me."

Picard sighed with minor exasperation of his own, running a hand over the smooth skin of his newly-healed head. "Beverly…"

"Don't 'Beverly' me," she said, but her cross tone was belied by the gentleness in her movements as she unfastened the unit around his right leg and maneuvered it off. Setting it off to the side, she turned back, met his patient gaze, and finally relented. "Look, you can keep reading up on your mining law from here. But you are not going anywhere until I clear you."

"Understood, _Doctor_." His voice was serious, but the wry look in his eyes drew a smile out of her in spite of herself. Yes—he knew exactly what he was doing this morning, and he had fully expected her reaction as well. But if he'd been betting on the fact that she wouldn't stay upset with him for long...oh, hell, she supposed he was right about that too.

Frustration rapidly evaporating, Beverly picked up her padd again and checked a few readouts. "So you are feeling better, then?"

"Much," he affirmed. "If you think it would be permissible, I'd like to try walking some as well? Not that I'm anxious to get away from you, of course."

"No, of course not," she agreed dryly, then tilted her head, considering. While it was sooner than she might let another patient be up, she did understand how important it was to him to recuperate as quickly as possible. This would help speed the process. And as a side benefit, she mused, it might also lead him to realize for himself that he needed more than a mere twelve hours after nearly dying in a landslide before he was ready to return to duty. "Well, according to my scans, everything is healing nicely. I think it would be fine for you to try."

"Thank you. It would be nice to freshen up on my own." Picard slowly shifted his legs over the side of the bed, then reached out to place his free arm around her shoulders to brace himself.

"Easy now," she warned, supporting him with an arm around his waist as he stood. He grunted as he rested against her, finding his balance before gingerly putting more weight on the healed leg. "How's that feel?"

"It's all right," he said, his voice suddenly tight.

Beverly glanced sideways at him and caught his eye, giving a tiny nod of encouragement, pretending not to recognize the fib. "Good. Remember it's been a few days since you stood up at all and these were pretty serious breaks, so you won't feel back to normal right away." She helped him walk in the direction of the lavatory, felt him shift to carry incrementally more of his own weight with each limping step until they reached the door. His face, she noted, was a bit pale from his efforts, but she didn't call attention to it. "All right. I'll leave you in peace and go get you something to eat—just tell me if you need any help getting back to the bed."

She hesitated for a moment after the door slid closed behind him, worried that she might be letting him move too quickly too soon after all, but finally decided he, or the computer, would let her know if he needed help.

When she returned ten minutes later, though, carrying a tray, she found him waiting uncomfortably at the lavatory door. "Everything all right?" she asked in concern.

"Yes. I just, ah—thought it might be best to wait for your assistance." He gestured with the arm still in a sling and grimaced slightly. "Given that I'm somewhat restricted here."

Knowing that the admission cost him, Beverly carefully kept any trace of sympathy out of her expression as she set down the tray and came back over to him. "Sure thing. You're doing great," she assured him as she helped him tentatively cross the distance back to the biobed and settle on it. "I might even be able to release you to your quarters by the end of the day—although I'll still want you to take it easy, Jean-Luc."

Unexpectedly, he grasped her hand tightly in thanks as he relaxed back against the bed, and she caught a hint of humor in his eyes as he tried to deflect from the difficulty he'd just felt. "So to be clear, Beverly, you're saying that I should _not_ attempt my new Himalayan horseback riding program on the holodeck tomorrow?"

She laughed and squeezed his hand in return, letting the touch linger somewhat longer than she probably should. "No, you should not. You also should not attempt anything challenging with this mission. I know better than to tell you you shouldn't go, but I want you to be careful. I wouldn't schedule anything until at least the day after tomorrow."

The exertion of the brief trips across the room had apparently convinced him of the prudence of her advice. Picard nodded acquiescence. "Very well, I'll alert Riker. The _Enterprise_ should be able to remain here at Pentarus Five for an extra few days, and we'll still have time to make the rendezvous with the _Intrepid_ so that Wesley can catch his shuttle back to Earth."

"Perfect." Pleased, she gestured towards the counter where a few plates of breakfast were set. "In the meantime, I saw you hadn't eaten yet so I assume you must be hungry. Breakfast?"

"Yes, thanks. There's no need for you to stay, though, if you're busy," he added.

"Not at all. I have plenty of time for my favorite patient." The instant the cheerful words were out, she had to fight an urge to step backwards, as if she could physically distance herself from them. What was she _doing_? Breakfast by itself was fine. _Flirting_ , which she was definitely edging towards, was another matter entirely.

But he didn't seem to mind at all; in fact, he seemed more at ease with her than she could ever recall. This was, of course, part of the problem. "Ah, and here I was under the impression that my behavior would disqualify me from such a designation," he said lightly.

Trying to distract herself, Beverly averted her gaze as she pulled the food tray over to his bed so he could eat...but she couldn't quite suppress her smile. "Well, you've earned it back—for now. But I imagine you'd end up in trouble again if you stay here too long."

He conceded the likelihood with an incline of his head.

She pulled up a stool to sit beside him and folded her arms to keep from finding another excuse to touch him somehow. "So you see, Jean-Luc, I have as much motivation as you do to release you from here sooner rather than later. We're on the same side."

"Indeed. Well then, that being agreed upon, I would be glad for the company now," he said warmly, and despite her efforts to center her thoughts again, something in his expression made her heart start beating a bit faster. She noticed idly that, although he'd washed his face, he hadn't yet had a chance to shave, and she remembered the feeling of the slight roughness of his cheek as she'd pressed against it the night before...

Her comm badge chirped. " _Ogawa to Dr. Crusher_."

Eyes locked with his, feeling a curious mix of relief and disappointment at the interruption, she tapped her communicator. "Go ahead, Alyssa."

" _Lieutenant Juarez is here for her 36-week checkup._ "

She'd forgotten about that. Jean-Luc nodded once at her and she smiled a bit regretfully. "On my way. Thanks." She stood up and pushed away the stool. "Rain check?"

"Of course." He picked up his fork to start on the omelette she'd brought and then, as if knowing what she was about to say next, he added, "I promise not to overexert myself the rest of the day."

"So, there's hope for you to become a model patient yet," she teased him.

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Picard demurred.

"Right." Beverly smiled again as she picked up her padd and headed back out the door. "Enjoy breakfast, Jean-Luc. I'll check in on you later."

"I look forward to it," he said, so quietly she almost missed it, and she caught a flash of— _something_ —in his hazel eyes before the doors closed behind her. She swallowed and faltered for a moment in the hallway. Unless her still-tired mind was imagining it—something really did seem to have changed between them. She just wasn't at all sure what to do about it…

No, she amended, she knew at least _one_ thing to do: before anything else, she had to focus on getting him healthy and out of _here_ , moving them both a little bit farther away in time and space from the most immediate reminders of the reason he was here in the first place. After that, well... She sighed, shaking her head to clear it, and continued out to the main bay, brightening again at the lieutenant waiting for her. "Francisca, how are you feeling today?"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you for all the kind feedback so far - I appreciate the encouragement! I've been keeping things moving at a bit slower pace on this story, since I believe with all of the particular dynamics at work here, that's the most likely speed Beverly and Jean-Luc would be moving at ... but hopefully they'll both see the light soon enough :) Enjoy!

#-#-#

Beverly Crusher rushed into her quarters and surveyed the scene, then relaxed to see she hadn't missed him after all. As much as she didn't like to think about it, there were only so many nights like this they had left, and she was determined to make the most of them.

"Hi, Wes. Sorry I'm late," she apologized, draping her lab coat over her desk chair and coming to the table to join him. "Thanks for waiting for me. So what's on the menu?"

"That's all right, I haven't been back too long myself." Wesley gestured to the place settings. "Um, we have chicken piccata, new potatoes, and French green beans."

"Sounds great. I'm famished." She took a sip of water and started to dig in. Between bites of potatoes, she asked, "So how did the mediation go today? What were you helping with? I never really got to hear."

His face lit up with the enthusiasm she always loved seeing from him whenever he talked about his assignments with the senior staff. "It was pretty interesting. The two groups are arguing over who has the rightful claim to a particularly valuable mine, so I was helping the captain review all the evidence for each side." He chatted a bit in more detail about it, then added, "The whole process is definitely less formal than it would be in a regular Federation setting, though. The situation is a little...volatile."

Beverly looked up at that, concerned. "Maybe you should have security with you tomorrow."

"Maybe," he said dubiously. "I do think some of the miners are trying to intimidate Captain Picard into ruling in their favor, but I don't think it's going to work very well. He's tougher than they think he is."

She smiled in ready agreement. "No doubt. If he can handle being the arbiter of succession for the Klingon Empire, I imagine he can handle salenite miners."

"Right. So I'm not really worried."

Beverly regarded her son with amused affection as he polished off the rest of his meal in short order. He was a little tougher than _he_ looked, too...but all things considered, she would feel better if they had a security detail for the remainder of the proceedings. Maybe she could mention it to Jean-Luc tomorrow at breakfast. Or maybe, she amended ruefully, her son would prefer his mother not get involved in a mission she had nothing to do with. But after the shuttle crash, she hoped she could be forgiven for being _somewhat_ concerned for his—for _their_ —safety.

Finishing his water, Wesley hesitated a moment and then looked at her with curiosity. "Mom, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How come nothing's ever happened between you and Captain Picard?"

Surprised at the sudden change in subject, she managed to choke down her bite of food, then set down her fork and frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean—it's obvious how much he cares about you."

Somewhat guiltily, her mind jumped to the particular ways that seemed to be evident just over the past few days since the rescue. While he'd concentrated alternately on preparing for this mission and making a steady but rapid recovery from his injuries, and she'd been busy with the usual mix of low-level accidents, illnesses, physicals, and research projects—still, every moment they'd spent together seemed more familiar, more charged with potential. Almost unconsciously, their casual touches were becoming a little more frequent, lingering a little longer each time...and the affectionate kiss on the cheek he'd given her after their rain-check breakfast today had distracted her half the morning.

But truthfully, it still wasn't anything much more overt than it ever had been, and it certainly wasn't public. So if _she_ wasn't even completely sure what Jean-Luc was feeling, how could Wesley know? She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. "Oh, and I suppose he's told you all about it."

Wesley shook his head, undeterred. "No, of course not. I don't think he would talk about it with anybody." _That_ was certainly true enough, she thought. "But I don't think it's hard to see. You know when you were trapped inside my warp bubble last month? He was almost more upset than I was."

 _He was?_ she almost asked, but swallowed the words. Of course he would never have said anything so directly after her return, and yet—she did remember how Jean-Luc had been there when she escaped through the threshold back to reality, had been the first one to reach her side, had pulled her into an embrace right there in the middle of engineering.

Still, she protested reflexively. "Wes…"

"And you always have that look with him," he continued, adding helpfully, "You know, like you did with John Doe."

Her cheeks colored. "Wesley, look. The captain and I have been friends for a very long time."

"Yeah, but I think there's something more to it than that," he said with a knowing grin.

Beverly sat back in her chair and stared at him, thinking again about the warp bubble, this time from the perspective she'd had inside an entire reality defined by loss, created by _her thoughts._ In the instantiation of some of her deepest fears, she'd gradually lost everyone, including Wesley, until the only person left in her world was Jean-Luc—and then she'd lost him too, and the universe literally began to collapse around her. Somehow she'd stayed calm and analytical, reasoning her way out of the puzzle, escaping back here, where the two of them were perfectly fine...and yet...

Her eyes slipped past Wesley to the mottled copper-colored surface of the planet slowly rotating outside the window behind him, and she remembered again how she'd feared they were both dead only three days ago, how Jean-Luc almost _was_ dead. And they were dancing around this attraction even more now, but she didn't know how she was supposed to just _forget_ what came before, what would almost certainly come again… It seemed impossible to imagine that she could ever calmly reason herself out of the fear, as if it were merely a scientific problem like the warp bubble. There was no stable threshold to a safer reality from here, only the same cosmic uncertainty there always had been.

 _Especially_ when it came to Jean-Luc.

Her face tightened. Of _course_ there was more to it than friendship, but if she couldn't sort through it all herself, she could hardly explain it to her son. Finally she offered wanly, "It's complicated, Wes."

"I know. I'm just saying." He took a drink of water and then looked at her seriously. "You never really dated anyone after Dad died."

She pulled her gaze back away from Pentarus, smiled at him fondly. "No. It's just been you and me for a long time now."

"Yeah, but I'm leaving now," he pointed out, with charming tactlessness.

"Thanks a lot," Beverly said in exasperation, sitting up again and folding her arms across her chest. "Make your mother feel great about being left alone."

"Well, I don't think you _will_ be alone. That's kind of my point." His brown eyes were earnest. "Mom, look, I know it's probably more complicated than I realize, but if it matters at all...I don't think Dad would mind if anything happened. He would want you to be happy."

She swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat. "I am happy, Wes," she said softly. "But thank you for saying that. Now you need to stop worrying about me, and focus on getting ready for the Academy. All right?"

He held her gaze a moment longer, with far too much perceptiveness for her liking, then smiled and nodded obligingly. "All right, Mom. If you say so."

"I do," she said firmly. "Now, I've been meaning to tell you about this great cafe a few blocks away from Medical that I found last year—you have to try it once you arrive..."

#-#-#

One week later she sat in the same spot at her dining table, staring at the empty place setting across from her and the blackness of space beyond, feeling the new silence of her quarters as an oppressive weight on her chest, trying stoically to convince herself she was fine. She'd been on her own for a year at Medical, after all...and yet somehow it always seemed harder to be left behind than to do the leaving...

" _Picard to Crusher_."

She startled at the wonderfully rich, familiar voice in the silence, her heart skipping a beat. "Crusher here."

" _Beverly, I thought you might like some company this evening. Would you care to join me for dinner?_ "

He knew she'd be missing her son. _Oh, Jean-Luc_. Of course Wesley had been right about him, as she'd always known—he did care for her, would never leave her to be alone. Her eyes filled with tears at his thoughtfulness before she hurriedly blinked them away, keeping her voice steady. "Thank you, Jean-Luc. I'd be glad to."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: To the extent this chapter has a handful of lines of familiar dialogue, they are credited to Nicholas Sagan, as I wanted to explore what might have happened had some of the revelations in "Attached" happened earlier in the series. Thanks to digitalfletch for the insightful discussions on characterization which were helpful to this chapter.

#-#-#

Jean-Luc Picard hesitated a moment before selecting the bottle from the shelf, then decided there was no reason he shouldn't. Robert had said not to drink it alone, but not necessarily to save it for a particular occasion. So to share it, instead, with pleasant company, on a quiet evening—well, after all they'd been through of late, it seemed rather fitting. And really, it _had_ been a significant day for her.

Hearing the door chime, he placed the bottle on the table and called, "Come."

The door slid open to reveal his expected companion and he smiled in greeting, but her answering look was one of sudden embarrassment. "I didn't change," Beverly realized in dismay as she came inside, noticing his casual attire—an olive green loose patterned shirt and tan trousers—and holding out her own arm to examine the light blue sleeve.

"It's all right, I didn't give you much notice." Picard smiled warmly, hoping to put her ease. "If it would help, I can change back to uniform."

She laughed and relaxed a bit. "No, _Captain_ , I suppose that's all right."

"Then by all means, please come in." He stepped closer to kiss her cheek, but she surprised both of them by sliding her arms up around his shoulders to hug him. Enjoying for a moment the rare feeling of his arms enveloping her in response, she pulled back to find a bemused expression on his face.

It wasn't that he _minded_ , of course, but… "Beverly?" he asked cautiously.

"It's just to say thank you," she explained, feeling slightly embarrassed again as she put a bit more space between them. "For thinking about me this evening. I was—well, it's going to take some time to get used to being by myself again. It's good to know I have my friends. You," she added meaningfully.

 _Ah_. "Always," he assured her. Turning back to the table, he uncorked the bottle and carefully poured two glasses of the pinot noir, held one out to her. "From my brother's vineyard," he offered. "This is the first time I've opened a bottle since we left Earth. He told me I shouldn't drink it alone."

Her blue eyes were curious as she accepted the glass. "What's the occasion?"

"Only that a milestone has been reached. Launching your son from the nest, so to speak, is certainly worthy of recognition." He paused. "Isn't it?"

"Oh, that. Right," Beverly said a bit sheepishly. She wasn't going to win any points for style tonight, was she? "I hadn't thought of it as an _occasion_ , but I suppose there is something to celebrate in getting him this far."

"And quite successfully. You should be proud."

"Thank you." She raised her glass to touch his and took a sip of the wine, letting it linger in her mouth, savoring the smooth finish. "It's excellent, Jean-Luc. And I'm honored you'd bring it out for me."

"My pleasure," he replied easily. He swirled the dark liquid around in his glass for a moment before taking an appreciative swallow of his own, then glanced behind him. "Now, I believe you were expecting _dinner_ , not only drinks..."

An hour later the bottle was drained, the meal nearly finished and the mood comfortably languid. Picard sat back in his chair, entranced by the slight flush of her cheeks, the soft wave of her hair, the smile that never seemed to leave her lips.

She caught him watching her, but neither looked away, and cool fabric or not, Beverly found her uniform feeling quite warm all of a sudden. "Thank you again for inviting me tonight," she said softly. "This is lovely."

 _So are you_ , he thought, but didn't say; the wine hadn't loosened his tongue _quite_ so much…although it occurred to him now to wonder, where _did_ he expect all of this to lead? Almost certainly, he should have considered the question _before_ the intimate dinner, though he hadn't really set out for it to be any different than any of the others they'd shared in the past year.

Or had he? Ever since he had woken up in sickbay a few weeks ago to the healing salve of her presence, he'd found himself seeking out her company more, brushing up against the limits of their friendship, quietly thrilling at all the little signs she was doing the same… Merely being around her had always been, would always be, enough, but if there were things he would _never_ be able to say aloud—the kinds of things he'd so carefully suppressed for twenty years—how far should he allow this to go now? He smiled back at her for a moment but looked away, trying to rein in his thoughts. "Anytime."

Beverly fiddled with the stem of her wine glass and then, a bit heady from the real alcohol and the atmosphere, took a deep breath. She'd been thinking about it for weeks now...maybe it was time to _say_ something. They were comfortable, as comfortable as they'd ever been, and yet somehow she had a feeling if this moment passed, it might not come again for a long time... "You know, after the mission last week, Wesley asked me why nothing had ever happened between us."

Picard tightened his grip on his own glass as he brought his eyes back to her face, but she was staring into the deep red liquid, reflecting. "What did you say?" he asked finally, not at all sure he was ready to have this conversation but also, on some level, knowing it was long past due.

She shrugged, the faintest hint of her familiar smirk on her face as she looked up. "That it's complicated."

Now there was an understatement, he rued, smiling in spite of himself. "I suppose that's accurate," he allowed dryly.

"But why is it, really?" she asked quietly, her demeanor turning more serious. "We've been friends for a long time. We have—an attraction to each other. We've just never truly acknowledged it."

"No. But supposing we acknowledged it." He held her gaze steadily, saw her swallow. "To be closer—is that what you would want?"

"I don't know. Yes. I think so." She sighed. "Ever since the accident a few weeks ago, things have seemed...different between us. You've felt it." It wasn't really a question.

He nodded, wondering if he dared press farther in his answer, deciding to let her proceed with what she seemed to want to say. "Yes."

"I don't know. Maybe we're just too settled in our habits for anything to change," she said with an apologetic look. But then she frowned, shook her head. _No; he deserves for me to be honest._ "No," she repeated aloud. "The truth is, Jean-Luc, I've been afraid."

"Of me?" he asked, unable to quite hide his surprise.

"No, of course not," she said hastily. "Of—well, of _losing_ you, Jean-Luc. You mean far too much to me already. All these things keep threatening to take you away—the Borg. This shuttle crash. I'm scared of what would happen if I lost you."

There it was. Out in the open now, hanging in the air between them. She didn't add, _like Jack_ , because that part simply had to be understood. But if she'd never been able to say even this much before, she hoped he would hear the rest, even if unspoken. She dropped her gaze again, finished the last sip from her glass, let the warmth of the wine spread again throughout her and steady her nerves.

Struck by her words, Picard watched her for a moment, absorbing them. He'd never quite considered how much her husband's death would have affected her ability to form that kind of bond with anyone else. He'd certainly never realized how much that fear of loss might have affected her relationship with _him_. _Well, what_ did _you think?_ he remonstrated himself—and he realized—he didn't _know_. All these layers to their friendship, all of these cautious steps taken from behind carefully drawn lines, for all these years... He'd thought that on her part, if she'd ever considered it, she must have been wary of becoming involved with such an old friend, _Jack's_ old friend, too, who would always remind her of Jack and what had happened. But he knew she didn't blame him for the accident, and if they were so close now in their own right, then _why_ , exactly, she'd been wary, other than the risk of upsetting what they had—he'd never understood until now.

But this fear—he instinctively wanted to reassure her, to take it away, but he had to admit it was rational. Life on a starship was always going to be dangerous. It was only good fortune that he hadn't lost his own life any number of times before now.

Except—not _only_ good fortune...

The distance across the table, which had afforded a perhaps necessary buffer before, suddenly seemed far too great. In one unthinking motion he rose and extended his hand to pull her up into an embrace, closing his eyes at the feel of her slender arms wrapped around his waist, her face next to his.

"You know, luckily enough, I do have an excellent doctor taking care of me," he murmured. "I, for one, have complete faith in her."

She smiled regretfully, tucking her chin against his shoulder, appreciating the attempt at reassurance, but he knew as well as she did that it couldn't solve everything. "I may be a good doctor, Jean-Luc, but I'm no miracle worker," she answered softly.

"Oh, I might beg to differ," he said with a smile, then pulled back to look at her more seriously. "Beverly, I didn't realize how much cause I've given you to worry recently, how much I've put on you. I'm sorry about that."

Her expression was rueful, her tone full of the practicality that he'd always loved about her—although it was hardly helping matters now. "Well, you're the one that nearly died. I imagine you've had the harder time of it."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." He reached up to brush her hair back over one shoulder, and she bit her lip. "Beverly, I can't promise that I wouldn't be in danger again in the future."

"I know. That's the rub." She shrugged a bit, trying to be nonchalant, dropping her gaze to his collarbone. "So—what I _want_ , may not be the most relevant question here." _But I do want you_ , she thought anyway, and she felt his arms around her as the only possible answer to all the unanswerable questions.

 _Damn it_. Nothing was ever going to happen if she stayed paralyzed like this. "Jean-Luc." He glanced up at her, something in his eyes stealing her breath away, and before she could change her mind she leaned in and kissed him. Slowly his arms tightened around her as he returned the kiss, gently at first and then with more intensity, and she instinctively pressed closer to him, opening her lips to his tongue, tasting the complex flavors of the wine and of _him_ —

Abruptly he pulled away. She opened her eyes, aching from his sudden absence, and was bewildered to see what looked almost like anguish on his face as he averted his gaze.

"Jean-Luc?" Had she overstepped somehow? But she couldn't see how she could possibly have misunderstood his actions, everything he'd said to her... When he didn't reply for a moment, she tried again, fighting to keep her voice steady as she offered an apology. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

He stopped her with a shake of his head. "No, you're—it's all right. I do want this." His voice was rough with desire, showing her the truth of his words, but offering no clarity.

"Then what is it?"

Picard closed his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line, cursing inwardly. What an arrogant, self-centered fool he was. _How_ had he never thought this through—what might happen if she ever did return his feelings? Would that somehow make it _right_ , what he'd always felt for her, when he never should have to begin with? Would that absolve him of his actions? If it were to have even a chance of doing so, she had to understand the truth he'd been guarding so long.

Even if it meant losing her now.

"Jean-Luc, please."

He couldn't bear to hear the hurt in her voice. But he might have to make it worse.

"I love you," he admitted finally.

Beverly blinked in surprise, feeling the flash of joy at his words tempered by confusion as to why the admission obviously upset him so much. She tried to smile around the sudden lump in her throat. "Jean-Luc, I—"

"You don't understand." He raised pained eyes to her. "Beverly, I've always loved you."

Something about the way he said it struck her deeply, and she stifled an urge to step backwards as understanding dawned. _Always_ … "You mean—"

"From the beginning."

"But you never said anything," she whispered.

"You were married to my best friend. I could never have acted on it." She was silent, acknowledging the truth of the words, as he held her gaze with difficulty. "And after the accident, I promised myself I never would. I would never tell you how I felt."

"The accident wasn't your fault," she protested quietly.

"I know." And he did know; they'd only spoken of it a handful of times since she'd returned to the _Enterprise_ , but he accepted that she had never blamed him, and he knew there was nothing he could have done to change what had happened. No—his guilt wasn't for the accident he couldn't change, but for the feelings he should have been able to. Picard dropped his gaze again. "I know. But I never had any right to feel that way about you then. And I don't know that I do now. I never wanted to betray my friend."

Beverly squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. So many things made sense now—the way Jean-Luc had stayed away after the funeral, why he hadn't wanted her on the _Enterprise_ four years ago, why he'd always kept his own careful distance from her even as they continued to grow closer...

"So no matter how strongly I may feel about you…" He trailed off, running a hand over the gray hair at the nape of his neck, and took a deep breath before finishing, his low voice miserable. He knew this would certainly affect how she saw him, saw their entire friendship, from the start. But it was his own doing, after all, and he had to face the consequences. "You deserved to know."

She shook her head, stepping backwards now. She thought they had made their peace with Jack's death, that the main thing holding them back was her own reticence and his respect for it, or perhaps a sense of the propriety required of their positions...but how had she never known about _this_? Had Jack known? No, he couldn't have; Jean-Luc was far too good at hiding his feelings. Because of _her_ —and because of his sense of loyalty to his friend, to her husband, _still_ , no matter how many years he'd been gone now. _Was_ it disloyal, though? Was she being disloyal, too? She'd honestly never considered it, but she'd never had _reason_ to—

It was too much at once. "Jean-Luc. I think I should go." She could almost see him drawing back into himself, arranging his features with careful neutrality before he nodded. Her heart felt like it was about to burst out of her chest— _I don't want to hurt you_ —but she needed time to think. _Please understand_. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Picard smiled once, trying to keep the bitter self-reproach at bay, but when he raised his eyes again to hers there was only resignation. "Please don't be," he said. "I understand."

On impulse she closed the distance between them again and kissed him softly, feeling anguish tear at her as he held himself rigid. She drew back, afraid to look at him, and turned away. "Good night."

"Good night, Beverly," he murmured as she left. He stood motionless, staring at the door, for a long moment. And then he pulled himself together and turned to change for bed, leaving the table uncleared behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: The last two chapters are set around the final scenes of "Data's Day." For timeline purposes, assume (taking a little liberty) that the events of "Data's Day" happened within a week following the previous chapter, while "The Loss" may or may not have happened in the meantime. Sonnets are credited, of course, to Wm. Shakespeare (Nos. XXVII and XXXVI). Thank you to all of the readers who have stuck with me thus far; I hope you like the conclusion. I've enjoyed writing it! Feedback is, as always, gratefully welcomed.

#-#-#

Checking the chronometer before he pulled off his uniform tunic and hung it in the closet, Jean-Luc Picard confirmed he had about forty-five minutes before he needed to be in Ten-Forward. He ordered tea for himself and sank with a sigh into his armchair, closing his eyes to try to rest. The _Enterprise_ was safely out of the Neutral Zone now, though he was certain the fallout from today's tense events would take awhile to settle. He wasn't yet sure if Starfleet would be happy with them for discovering Ambassador T'Pel's deception, or upset with them for not doing so _before_ she'd returned to the Romulans. Probably the latter, he thought cynically, even though there was no way for him to have known anything was amiss in four hours when the spy had kept up her cover for years. She might even have gotten away with it entirely, by falsifying her own death in a transporter accident, if it hadn't been for the solid investigative work by Commander Data—with help from Beverly, he acknowledged.

A message notification sounded from the padd on his coffee table, and he opened his eyes and checked to see that, prompt as ever, Beverly had already filed her report on the matter. So, presumably her duties for the day were done—and yet he'd heard she was planning not to attend the wedding this evening, so she would probably find some other reason to continue working late. Still, perhaps he could try stopping by sickbay later to see her.

Or perhaps not. He took a sip of his tea, hoping the fragrant bergamot would calm him as it usually did, but he felt only disquiet. Beverly frequently accompanied him to events like tonight's, but since their dinner five—or was it six?—nights ago, they hadn't seen each other off-duty at all, and her absence was palpable. He understood that she didn't want to see him for now, but it was still difficult to accept.

In the meantime, of course, they'd _worked_ together seamlessly as always; the two of them had never had any trouble at all maintaining professional detachment, and he had never lacked for self-discipline when it came to devoting attention to his duties. To the contrary, if there was any one thing at which he excelled, it was focusing on work in order _not_ to think about Beverly Crusher.

He'd had a few decades of practice.

So as far as any shift in their public interactions went, it was likely that only a careful observer would have noticed the increased reticence in her demeanor, the extra formality in his bearing, the reversion to exclusive use of titles in place of names: all the little indicators that while they were colleagues, they were not necessarily—any longer?—anything more than that.

But it stung, and a great deal more than he cared to admit. Stifling the impulses he had to stop by her office on occasion, to invite her to breakfast, to seek out her counsel, took more effort than it ever had in the past. He supposed it wasn't particularly hard to understand why. In quiet moments like this one, and in the nights when he lay on his back staring restlessly at the starfield out his window, his thoughts kept returning to _her_ , to her eyes, darkened with desire that he'd never imagined he would see directed at him, to the feel of her slender waist in his arms, her soft lips moving against his…

And he'd pushed her away. God, how he'd wanted her, wanted to show her how he felt about her, _finally_ , after all these years—now that she, astonishingly, seemed to feel the same way, and was even brave enough to act in spite of her own fears. But how could he continue, in good conscience, with her never knowing that he'd coveted this from almost the moment they'd met—when she was already then with someone else— _someone else_ being his own trusted, and trust _ing_ , friend?

He couldn't help how he'd felt. He'd had more than a fair number of romantic dalliances in his younger days, but what he felt for Beverly was something more. From the beginning he understood that he'd never fallen quite so hard for _anyone_ , not Jenice nor any of the others, even though he knew it was wrong. He'd also never been tempted so badly to betray someone he cared so much about. It took rigid self-control to sublimate and ignore his feelings for her when they were all together, but at least it _worked_ —the two of them never knew, and they all had enjoyed a close friendship for years. But the experience had changed him. Even during all the time he'd stayed away from her after Jack's death, trying to suppress the guilt along with his feelings, he'd never again pursued any serious relationships—he'd never again _wanted_ to. At times he thought it was foolish not to simply forget her. But as they'd slowly cultivated this unique friendship again over the past few years, he knew it hadn't been foolish at all. As much as he'd tried to convince himself otherwise, he still loved her. As he always had.

And now she knew.

If she could forgive him for that, somehow, perhaps they could have another chance at what had begun that night...but it had to be up to her. He only hoped—rather desperately, if he was honest with himself—that if she couldn't _love_ him, they could still be friends. It might seem difficult to be around each other if there was this chasm between them that could never be crossed again; but they'd always made it work before, so surely they could do so again.

Couldn't they?

He hadn't been sleeping well the past few nights; with a sigh, he resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get any rest in now either. Catching sight of a well-thumbed volume of sonnets and poems on the table next to him, he began to page through it, hoping to distract himself, absently skimming the familiar lines.

 _But then begins a journey in my head,  
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:  
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,  
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,  
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,  
Looking on darkness which the blind do see. _

Well, _this_ certainly wasn't helping at all. He grimaced and flipped a few more pages.

 _I may not evermore acknowledge thee,  
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,  
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,  
Unless thou take that honour from thy name…_

Annoyed with himself, Picard shut the book decisively, casting his eyes over his quarters for something less fraught to read, like the history plays, or maybe some Vulcan philosophy. Seeing nothing at hand, he rose in frustration to dress for the ceremony.


	9. Chapter 9

"Dr. Crusher?"

A bit tiredly—how had it gotten this late already? she wondered—Beverly Crusher looked up from the research she was reviewing at her desk. "Yes?"

"Captain Picard is in the nursery. I think he was looking for you."

Managing with an effort to keep her expression neutral, she nodded at the blonde nurse paused at her office doorway. "Thanks, Mariel. I'll be out there shortly."

When the young woman had left, Beverly tapped her fingers a few times on the desk and stared unfocused at the computer screen. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised that he had finally come to find her; she knew she was being unfair in avoiding him so assiduously this past week. She did feel guilty skipping out on Miles and Keiko's wedding, too, despite her friendship with them both, but she'd still felt too uncomfortable being around Jean-Luc in such a setting. She couldn't avoid talking to him forever, of course, she just still wasn't completely certain what to do.

Not that she hadn't been thinking about it, about _him_ —but while she knew it was cowardly of her, she'd found it easier to bury herself in work and other obligations for a few days than to confront everything. The revelation that he'd been in love with her for so long had forced her to go back and reevaluate their entire relationship. It was _right_ , of course, that she'd never known in the beginning, or after Jack died, when they'd both been grieving; he'd done the honorable thing in never saying anything. And she could understand why, though it had hurt a great deal at the time, he'd dropped out of sight after that. But their friendship had always been a close one before the accident, and had quickly redeveloped into an even stronger one in the past year…and she still had never known.

As they were friends again in their own right, though—and she did have to admit she knew they'd always had chemistry between them, and _definitely_ did now—did that really make things all right now? She thought, with a smile, about Wesley's earnest attempt at reassurance before he left. He hadn't known about _this_ , of course, but even so, she thought that he was probably right—Jack always had wanted her to be happy, and he probably wouldn't even be upset with Jean-Luc. With that remarkable generosity of spirit he'd always had, along with his self-assured bluntness and practicality, she could almost picture him grinning and elbowing Jean-Luc as he had a million times, teasing that he wouldn't hold it against him, because he himself wasn't there anymore, and besides, _really_ , who could blame the captain for liking his gorgeous, talented wife? (To much eye-rolling on her part, he _had_ described her to Walker and Jean-Luc that way on more than one occasion...)

It wasn't as though Jean-Luc had _wanted_ to have those feelings at first, after all—he'd obviously struggled with guilt about it, but it seemed he couldn't help it. So he'd done the next best thing, from his perspective, and kept his peace. It must have been difficult for him, but he'd never once been anything other than proper in that regard in their company, or later in just hers. Well, she amended, he _was_ fairly gruff and aloof for awhile there when she first came to the _Enterprise_ , but now she understood better why, and anyway she'd just taken it to be part of his exasperating charm.

Still, she believed that he had never meant to be dishonest with her, and she _knew_ there was nothing dishonest about their friendship or the affection between them. He was only trying to be loyal and respectful. How could she fault him for that? She'd just been so... taken aback, that night, by the knowledge, that she needed time to think...

So she'd _been_ thinking, and now, if she knew that she couldn't fault him for what he'd felt and what he'd done then, especially since she cared so much for him—even, yes, _loved_ him, too—then if they were ever to move past this, she had to absolve him of that guilt.

And she wanted to. Because the truth was that being separated from his friendship was making her miserable.

Even more than that, she admitted, for that brief moment in his arms, kissing him, as she felt the heat rise and the fear melt away, everything had felt perfect. Every part of her was aching to feel that way again.

Resolved, Beverly pushed back from her desk and headed out of her office. She came around the corner to find Jean-Luc and, unexpectedly, Data, both still in dress uniform, speaking softly over the Juarez baby's bassinet and regarding the newborn with a sense of wonder—or at least, in Data's case, curiosity.

"Welcome aboard."

She heard Jean-Luc's whispered words and felt a part of her melt at his open expression as he gently touched the baby's blanket. She took a deep breath to steady herself as she approached them. "I see you've met little Marco."

Picard nodded, studying the infant's quiet, alert gaze a moment longer before risking a look up at Beverly. Her own blue eyes showed fatigue from the long day, but her posture seemed less guarded than it had since their dinner. He allowed himself a faint hope that this was a positive sign, that maybe it _was_ all right that he'd decided to come by, and they might be able to talk...

Data held up a finger over his lips, in exaggerated imitation of the captain's gesture a few moments prior, and Picard caught an amused look on Beverly's face as they all stepped away to be outside the nursery. "Doctor," Data said, "I wanted to thank you again for your instruction earlier. It was most helpful."

She shot a quick glance at Jean-Luc, hoping he didn't know what the android was talking about, and motioned for Data to stop. "You're welcome, Data. I'm so glad it went well. How did the rest of the wedding go?"

Data started to tell her in more detail but, noticing a similar expression on both the captain and the doctor's faces and inferring that the two might not _really_ want him to continue at the present moment, he paused. "Perhaps I can fill you in later," he amended, using what he hoped was the appropriate colloquialism. "It appears that you both are...tired. It has been a full day."

"Indeed, Mr. Data," Picard agreed. "Perhaps we should call it a night. Congratulations on your fine evening."

"Thank you, sir. Captain, Doctor. I shall see you tomorrow morning."

Picard shifted somewhat uncomfortably as the android departed sickbay, glancing at Beverly and wondering how best to continue under the circumstances...he'd come here resolved to see her, but he still wasn't certain whether or not she really wanted to see _him_. "Doctor," he began, trying to resist the impulse to tug on the too-constricting collar of his uniform top.

"Captain," she replied, then tried a smile. " _Jean-Luc_. I know we need to talk." Her fingers played nervously over her thighs. "Are you free now?"

He nodded and clasped his hands in front of him. "Yes, of course." He hesitated, then asked cautiously, "Would you like to come back to my quarters?"

"Yes, that sounds fine." She fell into step beside him and they walked in unaccustomed silence. She cringed inwardly at the formal distance he was placing between them, but she knew he was only trying to respect her own wishes. _But I don't want it to be like_ this. Unable to stand the tension any longer, she searched for a safe topic to break the ice until they could reach his quarters. "So, how _did_ the wedding go?"

"Oh, very well," he answered, sounding relieved. "Chief O'Brien was quite happy, and Miss Ishikawa looked lovely. I noticed she danced very nicely with the 'father' of the bride, too. I didn't know Mr. Data could dance." He cast a sideways glance at her as they exited the turbolift on his deck, realization striking him as he recalled Data's earlier words. "May I presume he might have had some instruction from you?"

Beverly's cheeks colored. "Ah, yes, actually. He did. He asked me to teach him how to dance earlier today. Of course, at first I taught him _tap_ dancing."

"Tap dancing?" he repeated in bemusement.

"Yes, he had somehow neglected to mention he wanted to dance at the _wedding_." She shook her head, smiling at the recollection. "So then we sorted it out and I taught him something more appropriate. I'm glad it worked out."

Picard studiously kept his eyes forward, but the humor came through in his voice. "Well, I'm sorry I missed the return of the dancing doctor."

She turned to face him as they entered his quarters, narrowing her eyes at him in feigned indignation. "I swore Data to secrecy, Jean-Luc, so you better not out me now."

"Your secret was always safe with me," he assured her gravely.

"Hmph." But she couldn't help a smile from escaping. Of course she could trust him; she always had. Jean-Luc was the only other person on board who even knew about the nickname, because he'd been around when she'd been tagged with it in medical school, but he'd never breathed a word. There was something special, she mused, about having a friend who'd known you so long, while so many others passed in and out of life over time.

There was something special about _him_ , in particular.

"Still, as I said," he continued, "I am sorry I missed it."

All right, _now_ he was just pressing his luck. "Jean-Luc, you hate dancing," she reminded him, folding her arms in front of her and raising an eyebrow at him.

Picard shrugged, the slight smile back on his face. Even weary after a long day of work, she was still as beautiful as ever—and that lively skepticism she seemed to reserve for him could always inspire him to meet her challenge. "It depends on the company."

At the glimmer in his eyes, Beverly swallowed once, suddenly noticing—and wondering how she'd ever forgotten—how seriously attractive he looked in dress uniform. "So if I'd asked you to dance at the wedding, you would have?"

"With pleasure." She thought he'd meant it come out somewhat lighter than it did, which was, instead, with a low intensity that made her breath catch a bit. God, it was far too easy to fall into this dynamic with him, that made all her senses come alive as the heat between them began to throw off sparks. Even after everything that had happened...

Thinking along similar lines, his smile faded and he cleared his throat, stepping backwards and looking away. He noticed the closed book and half-drained mug of tea on his coffee table and grimaced slightly. "Well. May I—get you anything to drink?" he asked formally.

Not wanting him to retreat again, Beverly shook her head. "No, I'm fine. I just—wanted to talk." He looked back to her, hazel eyes flashing for a moment with longing that was quickly suppressed, but it was enough to start her heart beating faster again. She summoned her resolve and took a step towards him, saw the muscles twitch in his cheek as he held himself still, waiting to hear what she was going to say. And it was surprisingly simple to decide how to begin: "I don't want you to feel guilty anymore," she said softly.

He didn't move for a moment, and she could see in his eyes that though he wanted to, he couldn't quite accept what she was saying. "It's...somewhat difficult not to," he admitted at last. "I should never have felt that way, and I knew it."

"Jean-Luc, you were a good friend to Jack," she insisted, putting as much conviction as she could into her quiet words. "You couldn't help the way you felt, but I know you never meant for anything to happen. But that was a long time ago, and you shouldn't still feel guilty now."

Slowly he nodded, finally, gratefully accepting the absolution she was offering, feeling the weight of years lifting from him in the light of her confident assurances. No wonder that he loved her—her grace and generosity were truly astonishing.

Then the smile began to reappear his face as he contemplated the fuller import of her words. "I believe I may have said this before, Beverly, but I do love you," he murmured, smiling more broadly at the blush spreading across her lovely features. "Though I suppose it wasn't misstating things to say our situation was complicated, was it?"

Beverly shook her head again, this time with a rueful look. "No. We have a history and it will always be there. But I want what we have now." She paused, then pushed ahead bravely. "Because I love you, too."

The joyful relief flooded fully into his consciousness and he momentarily forgot to breathe. Staring into her hopeful, impossibly blue eyes, he lifted his hands to her face almost reverently, brought her parted lips to his, and kissed her.

Deeply. Without reservation. The way he had always longed to.

And now the heat ignited, and she was responding urgently, fiercely, stumbling with him towards the couch, bumping into the coffee table before they fell against the cushions and he pulled her down against his body, hardening with desire. She gasped at how good it felt as she melted against him, his lips and his hands urging her ever closer.

Straddling him now, she pushed up, auburn hair falling across her face as she looked down at him, and she felt another rush as she saw the answering intensity his dark eyes, heard his low whisper of her name. With a swift movement she lowered herself to cover his mouth again with hers.

And then she felt him move a bit awkwardly underneath her and she broke off, breathing heavily, to find a terribly frustrated look on his face. "This damned uniform," he muttered in explanation, trying to adjust the uncomfortable, constraining fabric.

"It's all right," she breathed, leaning in to kiss him once more before giving a wide, teasing grin. She was about to suggest that she could help take it off—

And then she yawned.

He couldn't help it—he laughed out loud. "Beverly. Are you growing tired of me already?"

"No, it's just—it's been a long day," she protested sheepishly, moving off of him to settle beside him in grudging acquiescence to her body's fatigue. "I'm so sorry, Jean-Luc."

Yielding to the reality of the late hour, Picard took a few deep breaths to slow his own racing heart, then shifted to draw her closer as she pulled her legs up on the couch and rested against his chest. He supposed there would be plenty of time later to finish what they'd begun, but as for now... "I'm hardly in a position to mind, now am I?"

"Good, because I'm not sure I can move from here," she murmured, her voice growing sleepy. Jean-Luc was amazingly warm and comfortable, and she could feel all of her energy rapidly evaporating as she wrapped an arm around his waist. It had been a very long time since she'd fallen asleep with a man, she mused...and even allowing they were both fully clothed, it was an incredibly heady feeling. They would have to do this more often in the future...among other things.

He felt her relax heavily against him and he smiled in wonderment, pressing his lips against her forehead. A few short weeks ago he'd been grateful merely to be alive, to be home here on his ship and to know the reassuring comfort of her presence nearby. But now—Beverly was _with_ him, in his arms, and somehow, beyond all his hopes, she actually _loved_ him. Closing his own eyes now, he tightened his arms around her and she snuggled even closer. He smiled again. With _her_ —it would be good to sleep.

FIN


End file.
